Indicative
by A Whimsical Technicality
Summary: Any casual observer granted with at least a sliver of intelligence could tell you that every action has a meaning. However, sometimes the brightest minds are blind to their own intentions. Such a quaint little nuance of programming, indeed. Ratchet/Wheeljack G1
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Greetings! This is dedicated for my wonderful friend, blackstar822, who really deserved this. Similarly, Wheeljack/Ratchet deserves more attention, at least in my opinion.

Also, a quick warning, this is my first Transformers fanfiction, and I am rather new to the fandom. Any reviews, correcting or otherwise would be much appreciated, especially at this point. Your opinions will be duely processed, and will hopefully contribute to the growth of this story as well as my growth as a writer. Thank you very much.

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Transformers, nor do I pretend to be.

So without further ado, enjoy your story concerning the affairs of giant transforming toy robots.

...

The entire Ark reeked of smoke. It was a thick, heady odor, mixed with equal parts heated metal and something distinctly chemical. It could probably compared to the fumes emitted from a barbecue grill, familiar, commonplace, yet slightly different every time. Unfortunately, just as the smell of grilling burgers gains a certain unpleasant tang when one knows that a pyromaniac is operating the cooking equipment (perhaps due to the incredible likelihood of charred, inedible patties), the same foul association comes to mind when one knows the implications of smoke in the Ark.

Therefore, the last things that would ever cross the Commanding Medical Officer's processor at such a time were the unusual qualities of the aroma surrounding him and the possible metaphorical connections of this situation one involving human culinary equipment under the hands of a mentally unstable chef. No, as Ratchet moved as quickly as his weighty legs could carry him through the hazy hallway, he was far too preoccupied with the incredible likelihood of a charred and inoperative engineer.

-Indicative-

In retrospect, he shouldn't be this solemnly frantic every instance there was an accident of some sort in the lab. Disaster was a somewhat common occurrence and he was trained to patch up, rewire, and rebuild almost any heap of mangled circuitry that used to pass for a mech. Especially a white, gray, green, and red heap of mangled circuitry. In fact, he had become so efficient with that particular piece of machinery that rebuilding him had become somewhat of a cyclic process: boom, fear, repair, scold, fret, boom, fear, repair, scold, fret...

No one was completely sure exactly when this cycle started. To most Autobots, the process had dulled down to something natural, like the rotation of a cooling fan or the revolution of a planet (well, at least one that was not drifting off through the vacuum of space due to the planetary-scale violence of a civil war) around a larger stellar body. To the medic, however, the cycle was always on the forefront, thrumming through his cranial wiring like a war chant. Boom, fear, repair, scold, fret, boom, fear, repair, scold, fret, boom, fear...

One would think that over the millennia, the frequent explosions and injuries would lose their horror, but every time was just as jarring as the last, maybe even more so, because it is only a matter of time before his luck runs out. For that reason, he began the tradition of running panic-stricken to the site of the mad scientist's latest catastrophe, unable to rid himself of images of a lifeless frame, spark extinguished by the uncaring caress of flame.

"Dammit, Dammit, Dammit, DAMMIT!" he hissed emphatically through gritted dental components, cursing the slowness of his bulky form. If only he had some more efficient method of travel.

"_Primus_ dammit!" he swore now with even more conviction, this time cursing his stupidity.

Quickly reverting to his alt mode, he barreled towards the source of the smoke, sirens (or as Ratchet called them, "get the frag out of my way signals") blaring to warn anyone in his path that he was not stopping on their account and the last thing he wanted was another injury to tend to. His wheels screeched to a halt adding burring rubber to the array of acrid fumes lingering in the vicinity and he transformed back to his more versatile form.

"WHEELJACK! You moronic excuse for a scrap collector!"

Not particularly expecting a response, the red and white bot began fervently tossing detritus aside as he waded through the wreckage. Shards of metal, concrete slabs, barely recognizable equipment, none of that mattered. This was worse than usual, the lab would take months to return to something useable, however, this was none of Ratchet's concern. What he was looking for was- there! An all too-recognizable wing was poking out of the sea of debris. That was it, he was so close! He scrambled to the object, junk tossed every which-way in his wake, and gave the gray metal a firm tug, dislodging the wing from its smoldering prison. Unfortunatly, there was no body attached to it.

Roaring the foulest of obscenities, he let the severed protuberance clatter to the unforgiving metal below. It was replaceable. It wasn't vital. It wasn't Wheeljack.

Raw terror gripped his spark with a primal claw, squeezing out all rational thought and he dug. Frantically burrowing through the warped remains of scientific progress, decorating his scrabbling hands with lacerations and the black powder of fresh carbon. He didn't notice. Nor would he care if he did. Fear pounded the back of his helm like a mallet being swung repetitively into a gong, the nagging melting from "what if he's injured?" to "what if he's gone?"

"What if he's dead?"

But, then he felt something, as soft as a breeze, but as powerful as a titanium chain tugging on his very essence. It was something that he would describe as a spiritual experience, if of course, he didn't find such things to be utterly stupid. He let the flow pull him, pushing aside rubble on autopilot. Digging, tossing, scraping, all in a trance. And then, a glimmer caught his optic sensors; not so much a glimmer, but a flash, a flash of color, a flash of familiarity,

"Wheeljack."

He pulled the inventor out from under the mess flipping him upright automatically to check his vital signs. A heavy puff of air exited his vents as Wheeljack turned his head towards his rescuer with his eternally half-smiling optics glowing and the the fins on either side blinking weakly.

"Hey," he choked out hoarsely, the searing, viscous air interfering with the thin filter on the speaker of his vocalizer. These could be his final words, his last thread of existence, a secret, a confession, anything... "What's up, Doc?"

"You idiot." Even on the brink of annihilation, he still had it in him to make a lame pass at humor. "You better not offline on me, do you know how much shit I had to go through to get you out of this mess?" The medic's voice lacked its usual caustic tone; he just could not will himself to muster up any anger.

"Do you know how much I had to go through to get myself into this mess?" the wounded contriver countered, still with a hint of mirth despite growing closer to fading into oblivion. Ratchet carefully picked up the slightly smaller mech, noticing, for the first time the fire licking the walls and yellow sparks, whipping through the air like illuminated dust before fizzling out against his plating. He held his friend close against his chassis as he exited what was once the lab, barely noting Inferno spraying flame-retardant foam in a wild attempt to douse the blaze. Everyone on the scene was looking in a different direction, yet every one of them failed to see the bigger picture, the over-arching theme.

"Just don't die on me," he whispered "just don't die." There was no audience to witness this vital piece of the puzzle being snapped into into place, no analyzer to realize that this was a milestone in something far greater; "for both of our sakes," no observer to sit on the medical Officer's shoulder as the inventor drifted down into unconsciousness, "please" no interprerter to devise that every event in this cycle, every action, has been indicative of something powerful, something right, something that had always been there, "don't die," and thankfully, there was no fool to laugh at a phrase's unintentional double meaning.

"I need you to live."

...

Author's Note: this IS going to be a multi-chapter fic, and the second charter is currently being written; do not fear.


	2. Lightening Strikes Twice

Author's Note: I would like to start off by apologizing for the significant time gap. I honestly was planning on having this done and uploaded around a month after the the first, but unfortunately, my plans were sabotaged by the dark forces which rule over the end of school to ensure that it is full of last minute projects. After that I felt a bit uninspired with this story shoved it aside for a while to do other things. Now I am a bit less of a newcomer in the fandom and have completed G1 and Animated, however if you notice any inaccuracies, do not hesitate to point them out. I will fix them to the best of my ability.

Last, but not least, an enormous thank you to all of my readers and reviewers! Your feedback and general enjoyment of my writing fuels me to write more. If I was not in such a hurry to go ahead and publish this long overdue chapter, I would thank each of you individually. Perhaps next time.

Whoops, that was not last after all. Thank you, SorrelShift who helped sort this rambling mess of text into something that hopefully makes sense.

I still do not own any part of the Transformers franchise unless you count a couple of toy robots. I do not make money off of this. Even if I did, I would have been fired on account of how long this took to complete.

Warnings: This chapter contains some language and robotic gore... Though it is not much worse than the previous chapter.

...

Sometimes when one digs a hole, whether it be in dirt or thoughts, to burry something away, a painful memento perhaps, it will mutely remain deep beneath the surface. However, depending on what it is an where it has been hidden, the elements around it can slowly erode and weather the topsoil until the the hands of time give one last push and it is unearthed, bared to the very same individual who wished to stow it away, affecting his or her life in a much more powerful way.

-Chapter 2: Lightening Strikes Twice-

It had been four days, in humanity's measurement of time, since what had been coined "The Kitchen Catastrophe" by the general population of the Ark, or, as recorded within Teletraan-1's official log, "Incident:ID:.50W48". Whether or not one was using a formal title, they were effected by it in some way or another.

Red Alert was promptly sent into a frenzy, babbling on about building codes in a way that kept gaining hysteria to the point of becoming unintelligible. Despite this, Grapple appeared to have gleaned enough information to begin the schematics for the new lab that he claimed would be the "magnum opus of disaster-proof work areas". Meanwhile, Prowl found himself even more busy than normal, computing the net amount of replacements that were necessary for full functionality as he pored over a seemingly endless pile of damage reports and complaints. He tossed a request to add the alleged dulling of Sunstreaker's rear fender as a result of radiation to the growing total losses upon Tracks's similar report of the explosion interrupting his delicate recharge cycle. At the same time, across several chaotic hallways, the cause of the monumental commotion was currently undergoing intensive surgery.

"You idiot! Is it really that difficult for you to stay still? I am trying to fragging work here!" the medic barked at his current patient.

The subject of the work tilted his head upwards, completely disregarding the other's order. "Hey, Doc, I've been in a coma for three days, can't you cut me some slack?"

"Hrmph, could you stop using human medical terminology; it doesn't apply to you, even if you do try to use their inferior technology." After the initial shock of the disaster, Ratchet had seemed to sink back down to his regular curmudgeonliness, intentionally employing any action that could be considered misconduct as an excuse to release an unsavory burst of animosity upon any being unfortunate enough to be located within a quarter mile radius.

"It kinda sounded safe enough, I mean they use those things all the time, so why can't we?" Wheeljack replied sheepishly.

"There is absolutely no way you can ever convince me that microwaving energon could be a good idea in any situation," Ratchet huffed as he flipped open a panel to continue his search for circuitry in need of repair.

"But, think about it, humans use microwaves to quickly add energy to their fuel source, so doesn't it make sense that we could do the same with ours, energizing it even more and making consumption more efficient?"

The red and white bot paused in his work for a moment before extracting a slightly warped equilibrium chip. "Fucking idiot."

"Look who's using human terminology now." The glare that resulted from the rebuttal was so acidic that it could have corroded most titanium alloys, metaphorically of course. If that was a literal statement, many an Autobot would be walking around with holes burnt into his or her frame.

The medic held the chip gingerly between the tips of his surgical forceps, subconsciously admiring the intricate pathways of copper that were miraculously still recognizable over the green backdrop. "Looks like Perceptor is going to have to do some work on this one. You better stay down until I get you a temporary replacement," Ratchet stated, ignoring the groan of defiance from the operating table. Instead, he focused on the detached right servo laying atop his working platform. Three of the joints had been disfigured after exposure to intense heat, all of which were located on the middle digit, locking it in place. This was not surprising considering the engineer's habit of tapping that finger on his machines whilst waiting for results. He still didn't understand why Spike snorted out a laugh when he brought the piece of machinery to tinker on during the emergency meeting the previous day. Using his best reasoning skills, he chalked it up to a lack of appreciation for the beauty of Cybertronian craftsmanship.

And the craftsmanship really was beautiful. Every plain and contour jacketed the inner workings almost seamlessly until each flawless curvature convened into the joint in a magnificent system of levers, gears, pistons, and wires working in complex congruence to generate kinetic energy in its most simple of manifestations. He stroked the junction in absent-minded admiration before retrieve his high-precision nano drilling apparatus. With practiced ease, Ratchet flicked the dial to "fine tune" and moved the tip to the target location of articular disruption before the aperture constricted and the nozzle emitted a thin beam with a quiet hum. Oddly enough, once upon a time the noise produced irritated the medic more than anything, but now the inverse appeared to be true. Each supercharged atom that shivered at the harsh breeze of energy, sweating photons and longitudinal waves no longer cried in anguish, but instead sung in harmony with the eternal dance of their respective electrons.

Familiarity is such a commonplace phenomenon with a greatly profound effect on the light in which an individual perceives an object, location, feeling, or any other tangible concept. Not a single being could truthfully deny the bias concerning that which they are accustomed to. He had always used that trend to reason with himself, to categorize the feeling that arose whenever he was fixing Wheeljack. Unlike the vibrations traveling up his arm, however, the engineer never had any hostility associated. Upon their rather harsh first meeting, he had experienced the same tenderness in his spark that the occurred with each and every patient before and after. But, this, it was more, was it not? Through some ridiculously abstruse joke the universe played on those who wished to lead an average existence, that moron had become his closest friend. Quite cruel real- "PIT-SPAWNED SLAG STRAINER!"

On the repair table, Wheeljack jolted in surprise as his friend and doctor began spewing a colorful stream of expletives and shaking his left servo vivaciously, which was most likely quite the sight to behold. The injured bot jumped off the metallic surface to assist his fellow Autobot and immediately face-planted into the floor with a painful clang, as would be the expected result of such an action when preformed by an individual who just had his sense of balance removed.

"Glitch head."

Ratchet made his way over to the patient sprawled out on the floor.

"You better not have any more injuries than when I left you or else you're gonna have to help me lubricate Gear's-" Wheeljack's teasing expression turned to one of puzzlement as the medic stopped mid sentence to stare.

"Your mask."

By some strange, low probability phenomenon, the manner in which he had landed had applied the right amount of force in the precise location of the manual release trigger of Wheeljack's blast proof face mask. Upon realizing this, his servo instinctively moved to cover to exposed area. Then, his mind caught up with his actions.

"Oh." There was no particular inflection on the statement; it was simply 'oh'. "Would you mind gettin' that for me, Doc?" he asked with a slight edge of anxiety. The 'Doc' retrieved the dislodged plating without so much grumbling at the nickname, and handed it back to Wheeljack who snapped it back into place. With the same uncharacteristic silence, the medic placed his arm below the incapacitated bot and hoisted him on to the operating platform.

There were very few subjects that the white mech refused to scrutinize or even grumble about, and this was one of them. It wasn't as if he had never seen it before; as a medic he had observed and operated on parts of his companions that they would not believe they had even if they were given a detailed internal diagram. However, much time had passed since it was necessary. Perhaps the purpose of the basic medical training in addition to his primary scientific education was to have the knowledge to preform basic mantainece on himself away from curious optics. How it would be for those countless cycles spent drinking alone in his chambers to be rendered pointless by a minor oral malfunction... On second thought, "perhaps" left too much of an error margin. Ratchet was almost certain secrecy was the exact concern that drove the engineer to deviate from his original plan.

The damage inspection continued noiselessly, save for the ever-present pulse of mechanical functionality, for what could have been an eon or an astrosecond. It was nearly impossible to tell how long the unreal ambiance of speechlessness resided over the pair.

"Sorta interesting, that's never happened in the entire time I've had this thing." He paused before adding "And it was around the very mech who helped me install it. What are the chances of that? I think the humans call it lighting strikin' out twice or something. Doesn't make sense if you ask me, but I guess no one did so..." Wheeljack mused aloud in hopes of wafting away the discomfort in the atmosphere.

"Yeah," Ratchet replied, keeping his focus trained on his examination, realizing that he had already preformed his inspection on the leg he was looking over. Unlike some bots, he knew that he could not adequately do his job when his mind was elsewhere. He removed his servo and averted his gaze in an attempt to purge the images of the same frame under the harsh lighting of the student surgical chamber.

"The only one," the medic muttered, the concept finally sinking in. "Well, I think it's probably time to call it quits for the day."

"Hey, that's not fair! I don't have my equilibrium chip back, so I can't do anything but lie here," Wheeljack complained.

"Well considering all that you're going to do is recharge, I think I'm being perfectly fair."

"Oh come on! There are so many things to do, why waste all that time?"

"It is not wasting, recharge is an essential step in the self repair process as well as-"

"Loosen up a bit will ya? You're staring to sound like Prowl."

"I sound nothing like Prowl!"

"Then why don't yo-"

"No."

"Oh come on, please?"

"No."

"Fine! Just leave me and be boring! You still can't force me to-" Ratchet gave him a look that he knew all to well. "Oh slag, you can can't you." The medical officer offered nothing but a smile that would look more in place on a Decepticon as he popped open a latch and removed a panel to expose a mesh of wires and energon line.

"You wouldn't dare..."

He continued to grin as he found the juncture where a particular wire was plugged in to the noisy, stubborn engineer's CPU.

"Stop right there! You can't seriously-" and pulled. "You little..." his voice trailed off and his optics dimmed as he was forced into stasis. Sometimes, it was great to be the doctor.

A much more relaxing silence he gazed at Wheeljack, who was now as quiet as the surface on which he lay. Wondering thoughts, having little to no sense of common decency, murmured treacherously about his placid recharge. Would he look like this if his spark was still, color bleeding away in a peaceful slumber?

"Got some documents for ya doc-bot." Ratchet spun around with a start at the sudden unexpected presence.

"Can't you give a bot a warning?" the shaken Autobot snapped.

"Aw, but what'd be the fun in that," Jazz chuckled. "Can't be an infiltrator without any proper practice at bein' sneaky, an' it seemed pretty rude to barge in on a conversation."

Ratchet frowned at how easily the other disregarded the invasion of privacy and personal space.

"Anyways, here's a good ol' fashioned damage report curtesy of your favorite rock-in-your-joint."

The CMO scanned the document's text which had the unmistakable digital fingerprint of Prowl's signature utilitarian typeface.

Casualties:

-Wheeljack

-Red's Sanity (oh wait)

-Tracks's Beauty Sleep

-Sunstreaker's Sensitive Aft

Ratchet squinted back up at Jazz in cynical disbelief.

"'Kay, ya got me. The poor ol' workaholic had passed out on his desk. I may a' finished it for em'," he explained with an affable shrug.

"But did you really have to-" the medic paused considering what to say. "Oh, forget it. Just don't do that for any of _my_ personal reports and we're fine." He couldn't suppress the smile that was forming across his plating when he envisioned how Prowl would react to the forgery and blatant mockery taking place right beneath the observation of his ever observant battle computer.

"Well if you don't mind, I'm going to get some rest, and it would be wise for you to do the same," Ratchet said, dismissing the other from him medbay. Once he was alone once again (at least he hoped he was), he looked down at his shaking servos. He really did need a nice, long recharge, and vacation for that matter.

.

He was young, inexperanced, and prideful, but his spark was in the right place. Saving lives was his reason for enrolling in the medical division of the Academy of Science and Technology in Iacon, and that was exactly what he was going to accomplish. No matter how much work it required, Ratchet was determined to become the top of his field, to make the biggest impact. Unsurprisingly, he often lingered long after hours, letting his desire to become a doctor eclipse the companionship of his peers. That was exactly where he was in the moments before one of the pivotal points of his existence, perusing documents and reports in the nearly empty facility. Suddenly, there was a tumultuous roar that shook the very foundation of the building. Files and datapads clattered to the floor around the petrified medical student as he frantically searched for a reasonable explanation for what at the moment sounded to him like a full scale invasion. He wanted to curl up and hide himself away, but a nagging feeling kept urging him onwards, reminding him that there could be someone in dire need of his help. Before he was aware of his actions, he was out of the door and heading in the approximate direction of the disturbance.

What he found was not an attack force or even a group of troublemaking hooligans. The culprit was a single mech, sprawled like a used spring beside the smoldering remains of some large mechanism that had probably been hideously expensive.

Ratchet quickly surveyed the extent of the carnage; he was flat on his back and covered in lacerations as well as shrapnel of all shapes and sizes poking out from his body like decorations on a bizarre piece of architecture situated atop a pool of faintly glowing energon. Electronic impulses began to fire off rapidly as the uninjured mech frantically tried to bring up the proper procedure to check for vital signs in such a situation only to find that his memory banks had blanked out, short circuited in panic. In a last ditch effort, he dug his fingers into a hidden seam that provided access to the laser core casing, the housing of the spark. He gave a firm yank, grimacing at the tell tale popping sound of minor movement cables snapping and the groan of staining metal as he wrenched the naturally sealed chamber into opening with his bare servos. Finally an audible click emanated from the circuitry and the panel gave way to a trickle of ethereal light.

The white bot vented the hot air that had been building up in his system as he beheld the still pulsing spark, energy crackling across its surface before dipping back down into the nucleus in a hypnotic rhythm. The bot was online, but his prospects were grim.

Besides the two students, the facility was vacant and therefore devoid of any immediate assistance. According to the official guidelines laid down by the board, the next step would be to get ahold of the nearest communication device and contact a professional immediately. There were some problems with that. First and foremost, such an injury should be healed as quickly as possible, and waiting for a superior to arrive could result in grievous harm. Additionally, neither of them were technically supposed to be here at this time and being found messing with resources without express permission could lead to serious consequences, even expulsion in the case of the mishap scientist. With this in mind, Ratchet saw only one viable option; he, the student who was hardly qualified to smooth out surface dents, was going to preform a life or death operation.

As carefully as one could be in a state of dire uncertainty, he lifted the limp frame and made a beeline for the operating room, fluid dribbling down his arms to form a trail of pink behind him. Upon reaching the door, he braced the body on his knee in order to have a free hard to ping in the access code, as the door slid open, he realized that the panel was smeared with energon, but disregarded it due to more pressing matters. He set the science student down on the table and grabbed all the tools he could scavenge from any cabinet that had remainded unlocked, silently praising the laziness of his fellow med students. Once he had collected a fair amount, he took his conglomeration of miscellaneous instruments and began his procedure. After countless kliks of reattachment, handling forceps, and welding, a loose pile of scrap metal had been built up beside the patient. His most critical problems had been repaired and although he didn't look all that pretty at the moment, he was no longer in immediate danger of deactivation.

It was around this time that the subject's optics began to began to light up faintly signaling a return to consciousness. Ratchet paused and looked down at the face plates that were harshly mangled by his accident. There were dozens of questions he wished to ask, but this was hardly the place for conversation.

"State your name."

"Wheeljack," the student responded with a wince as movement of his lip components caused the fissures to widen and split. "Member of the engineering and innovation sector of the Iacon Acadamy of Sc-"

"That's enough! Do you want to cause yourself more bodily harm?"

The one head fin that was still operational blinked in acknowledgment. "Well, Wheeljack, do you have any idea how close you just came to becoming pertinently offline today?" Not waiting for a response, he picked up a welding tool and began welding the crevices shut as best he could, causing the engineer in training to squirm violently in pain, knocking the tool out of the red servo and directly on to his horrified face...

The older, much more experienced mech jolted out of recharge with staining transit cables and numerous other aches that contributed to general discomfort and fidgetiness. He groaned and shut his optics offline, only to have the darkness muddled with uninvited sights and sounds. Quickly rebooting his visual perception, he stared at the orange paneling of the ceiling as if it was art, pushing aside the minor worry that his past was beginning to utterly consume his life in the present to focus on the more pressing matter of removing himself from the berth. Without a doubt, this was going to be a very long day.

He seriously needed to file a vacation request.

...

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the second installment of Indicative. Hopefully the third will not leave you waiting as long.

-WhimsyTech Out-


End file.
